


Give Thanks to the Local Gods

by orcamermaid



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Drabble Collection, Gen, Humor, Mostly Gen, Multi, POV Multiple, Petty Drama, Slice of Life, Tense Working Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22309675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orcamermaid/pseuds/orcamermaid
Summary: Regarding the ongoing reluctant collaboration between the Magnus Institute and the Folly.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Implied Peter Grant/Thomas Nightingale - Relationship, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Past Beverley Brook/Peter Grant - Relationship
Comments: 20
Kudos: 49





	1. Business Lunch

**Author's Note:**

> this is very simply going to be a collection of short drabbles set in this universe, because i am APPALLED that nobody has written this crossover yet. generally speaking, the relationships will only be mentioned in passing; they're there, but romance is not the focus of this fic.  
> title from younger by the mountain goats: _"it never hurts to give thanks to the local gods / you never know who might be hungry."_

When Thomas reached the restaurant—a quiet upmarket affair—Elias was already at their reserved table, perusing a menu. He didn't stand when Thomas approached, but his gaze briefly flicked up from the menu (an entirely unnecessary affectation, as they both knew that Elias could See him without needing to lift his eyes) and he shot him the barest semblance of a smile.

"Thomas," he greeted him. "Lovely to see you."

"Elias," Thomas replied as he took his seat, inclining his head. "I take it you're well?"

He quite pointedly did not say _I hope_ , as he did not now or ever hope Elias was well.

"Yes," Elias said, returning his attention to the menu. "My Archivist is progressing marvelously, I must say. There are some growing pains, but he'll adjust in due time. How is your starling coming along?"

Thomas bristled at the implication that Peter was some sort of pet project he was working on—a tool to be coldly manipulated the way Elias manipulated his Archivist. He did not let it show on his face, and he'd long since learned to shield his thoughts from the Eye, but from the self-satisfied expression Elias was wearing, he must have known all the same.

"Peter is an exceptionally gifted student," Thomas said simply. "It's a joy to watch."

"Lovely," Elias said. "Very inquisitive, that one. If you hadn't snapped him up, I'm sure he could have taken very well to the Beholding."

Thomas breathed through another flash of cold anger. He deeply disliked hearing this snake talk about Peter.

"I'm sure," he said, his tone clipped. "Although I don't think you'd have found him to be very cooperative."

Elias hummed thoughtfully. "No, I suppose not. He does seem awfully stubborn."

"Oh yes." Thomas smiled genuinely for the first time since stepping into the restaurant. "He certainly is. It's one of his finest qualities."

He glanced at Elias's left hand where it splayed out over the back of the menu. A sizeable blue diamond glittered on his ring finger.

"And you're back together with _your_ Peter, I see," Thomas said, nodding at Elias's hand. It did not occur to him that it could have been somebody else. He had only ever known Elias to have one relationship, albeit an inconsistent one.

"It would appear so," said Elias airily. "It'll be a winter wedding this time. No sense in wasting time at our age, is there, and he does look rather fetching in winter colours, I must admit." He held out his hand and admired the ring for a moment, a small, pleased smile on his face.

"Well, congratulations," Thomas said. It wouldn't last, of course—it never did, with them—but Elias seemed happy enough, so he supposed they must get _something_ out of it. In any case, Elias was marginally easier to work with when things were going well with Peter, so Thomas quietly hoped it would last at least until their next meeting was over and done with. He was even more unbearable immediately following a divorce than he was normally, and that was saying something.


	2. Inquiries

Jon rubbed at his temples, refusing to look up from the research notes he'd been attempting to read.

"For the last time, constable Grant: no, I do not know how the Eye kept my body alive when my heart wasn't beating, and I am not overly inclined to investigate it."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Grant cross his arms where he was perched on the edge of Jon's desk.

"Seriously?" he said, incredulity clear in his voice. "You're not even a _little_ bit curious?"

Jon's lips thinned to a line.

"Not particularly," he said. "It's not a time of my life I like to dwell on, and as long as my body keeps functioning, I don't see why it's my problem."

Grant made a frustrated noise.

"You _don't see_ — I thought knowing was your whole deal? Isn't that the point of this entire institute?"

Jon looked up at him then.

"Not everything," he said. "I don't need to know _everything_. The inner workings of my body aren't relevant to the operation of the institute, or to any statement I've ever come across."

Grant groaned and ran a hand down his face.

"I can't believe this. I can't believe you work in this place and don't have an ounce of intellectual curiosity. It's honestly incredible."

"Fascinating," Jon snapped. "Get out of my office."


	3. Afternoon Tea

Martin could remember being scared of Molly once, when they'd first met—even now it wasn't hard to imagine, what with her needle-sharp teeth and her piercing gaze. Still, their relationship had shifted at some point, and now, looking at her over a cup of excellent tea and a plate of homemade shortbread, he could only see her as his good friend, with whom he could commiserate about clueless coworkers and discuss the newest episode of Bake Off. He sighed and took another piece of shortbread.

"Any developments on your end?" he asked her. "Have they stopped dancing around each other yet?"

Molly shook her head gravely, her face the very picture of frustrated disappointment. She shrugged one shoulder in a gesture Martin interpreted as _what can you do?_

"That's a shame," he said. "They _live_ together; you'd think they'd be better at communicating."

Molly tilted her head to the side inquiringly and looked at him; he blushed and shook his head.

"No," he said, rather miserably. "I haven't told him. Don't look at me like that, Molly, it's not that simple! He has a lot on his mind, and anyway he's— well. I don't think it's the right time."

The look she shot him in response was unimpressed and reproachful. He squirmed.

"I _know_ ," he said. "Molly, I know, but I _can't_. Not... not yet."

Molly huffed and picked up her teacup. She made a complicated face at him, somehow managing to convey _he hasn't noticed?_ Martin laughed humourlessly.

"If I were waiting for him to just _notice_ I'd be waiting a long time. For such a clever person he really is thick."

Molly nodded sympathetically, patted him on the arm, and handed him another biscuit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> molly would fight jane prentiss for scaring martin, and she would win, because she's molly.


	4. Complaint

Peter had never been inside the Folly before—although he'd been in the area plenty of times to soak up the exquisite loneliness Nightingale had been shrouded in until a few years ago—and he immediately found that he didn't like it. The wards on the building cut him off from his patron as soon as he stepped into the atrium, and he felt horribly exposed without its familiar chill in the air. Equally disturbing was the abrupt loss of the prickling sensation at the back of his neck that came with being Watched (although he'd sooner die than admit to Elias that he found the feeling comforting). He was _alone_ , but not in the way he should be. It was all wrong. He shuddered.

He only had a fraction of a second to register movement in the corner of his eye before there was a sharp pain in his left forearm. He gave a strangled cry and staggered backwards, staring. A woman had sunk her teeth into his arm like a limpet and was glaring up at him from under her mob cap, black eyes gleaming. His instinct was to disappear or to banish his attacker to the Lonely, but neither option was available to him here. He inwardly cursed Elias for leaving him to deal with these people. He'd _much_ rather be in prison than trying to liaise with the Folly.

"Molly," a voice said sharply. Peter looked up. He hadn't heard Nightingale enter the room. "That's enough."

Molly's eyes narrowed, and she reluctantly released Peter's arm, her long sharp teeth now glistening with blood. As soon as he was free she darted across the room, quicker than Peter would've thought possible, to stand behind Nightingale. She was still glaring at him.

"What the hell was that about?!" Peter demanded, clutching his bleeding arm. Nightingale looked more amused than apologetic.

"I believe Molly is upset about your association with Martin Blackwood. He hasn't visited since you began working together. They were rather good friends."

Molly hissed at him, and to his own frustration he took a step back. He cleared his throat, trying to recover some dignity.

"Could we just get this over with?" he said.

"Certainly," Nightingale said, gesturing to a doorway. "Step into the sitting room and we'll discuss business. Molly, would you get a towel for mister Lukas's arm, please?"

Molly nodded and glided out of the room, but not before snapping her teeth at Peter and shooting him another nasty glare.

* * *

Peter stepped out of the Lonely and into Elias's cell. Elias was clearly expecting him; he sat at the table, legs neatly crossed, hands folded on the tabletop. Peter glared and held up his injured arm—it had stopped bleeding, but the sleeve of his sweater was ripped and soaked through with red.

"I am _never_ setting foot in that place again," he gritted out. "That animal _bit_ me."

Elias tutted. "What a shame," he said. "I rather liked that sweater."

"I don't care about the _sweater_ ," Peter said. "Never ask me to do that again."

Elias held out a hand. Peter stepped closer, and begrudgingly allowed him to push up the torn sleeve and press his lips to the wound.

"I'm sorry," Elias said. He almost sounded sincere. "I didn't know she'd do that. You know I can't see inside the Folly."

"It's horrible," Peter muttered. "I couldn't feel the Forsaken, or—" He cut himself off. "I'm _not_ going back," he said again. Elias hummed.

"Did you just come here to complain," he said nonchalantly, plucking at Peter's sleeve, "or would you like to get out of this ruined thing?"

Peter rolled his eyes, shrouded the room in fog, and tugged off his sweater.


	5. Introduction

There was something moving under the surface of the Thames.

Jon's pace gradually slowed as he watched the dark shape glide through the water, brow furrowed. It was large, and moving towards him. He glanced around the empty street uneasily. He could try to run, he supposed, but he didn't even know what it was yet. He probably wouldn't be fast enough to outrun it anyway, if past performance was any indicator. He stared at the river. Wait and see it was, then.

A woman's head broke the water; her dark, cat-like eyes were fixed on him. Jon startled and took several steps back as she climbed out of the river and approached him, shaking excess moisture from her locs. Her wetsuit gleamed under the streetlights.

Jon wracked his brain. He assumed she was a daughter of Mama Thames, but there were so many, and he so rarely crossed paths with them—he couldn't remember which was which, aside from Tyburn, who was rather hard to forget, especially since he'd seen her locked in more than one heated argument with Elias. This young woman was definitely not Tyburn. Her gaze was appraising, and she had yet to speak. He clutched the strap of his messenger bag like a lifeline.

"Archivist," she greeted him finally, having stopped a few feet away.

"I— yes?" Jon said, hating how unsteady his voice sounded.

The woman paused, taking in his defensive posture, then quirked an eyebrow.

"Are you _scared_ of me?" she asked him, sounding amused. Jon swallowed.

"Well," he said, "usually when supernatural beings approach me out of nowhere, they want to kill me. Or threaten me. Or kidnap me."

The woman laughed—not mockingly, but like she genuinely found it funny.

"Bleak," she said. "I guess I should've known you'd be bleak, from how Peter talks about you. I'm Beverley."

Beverley Brook. Right. Not one of the major rivers, but he'd try to remember.

"Jon," he offered in response. "But— but you know that, I suppose. You, ah, you know constable Grant, then?" It had to be Grant. He doubted the genii locorum of London were in the habit of gossiping with Peter Lukas. He doubted _anyone_ was.

"Yep," she said. "Used to date him, actually, but, you know. He's married to his job. And to his boss, a bit, but don't tell him I said that." She grinned. She was very beautiful, Jon thought distantly. "He's talked about you—I would say ‘all good things’, but they weren't—and I was... curious. I try not to get involved with the Fears, you know. You're all so _messy_. Makes me tired just thinking about it. But you don't seem... Well. You're not exactly what I picture when I think of an avatar."

That was... probably a good thing. It probably shouldn't make him feel quite so self-conscious. He shifted nervously.

Beverley snorted. "You have _got_ to relax," she said. "What am I gonna do, eat you? I just wanted to have a chat."

"Right," Jon said. He paused. "Well… was there anything else? I was on my way home."

Beverley gestured down the street.

"Go on," she said. "I'll walk with you. Might as well pick your brain a bit now that I've got you."

Jon nodded and hesitantly began walking again. Beverley fell into step beside him.

"So," she said after a while. "That cute one—what's his name? Martin? How's that going?"

Jon tripped over his own feet.

"I— I don't know what you mean," he stammered. Beverley shot him a pitying look.

"And I thought Peter was _exaggerating_ ," she sighed.


	6. House Call

Martin Chorley was, as a matter of fact, one of the most powerful Newtonian practitioners in Britain. He was a dangerous man. He took pride in his careful planning and his cool head. He would have vehemently denied, under pain of death, having been startled by the presence of a mannequin covered in human skin in his living room.

Martin took a deep breath and scrubbed a palm over his face, trying to get his heart rate back down.

"Nikola," he sighed. "You could have knocked."

Her odd, grating laughter was not any more pleasant in the middle of the night than it was normally.

"Oh, where's the fun in that?" she chirped, plastic limbs creaking as she moved towards him. "I thought we were friends!"

"We may serve the same master," he said, "but please don't ever think that I enjoy your company."

Nikola gasped.

"That's not very nice!" she said. "How are we supposed to work together if that's your attitude?"

Martin shot her an unimpressed look and crossed to the sideboard to pour himself a finger of whiskey. Smalltalk with Nikola Orsinov was not an activity he wanted to engage in sober.

"What do you want, Nikola?" he asked her. She pouted. It was, like all of her attempts at facial expressions, highly disconcerting.

"Can't I just want to see you?" she said.

"You broke into my house in the middle of the night for a social call?" he said, annoyed but not particularly surprised.

"Maybe!" she said, having bounced back to her cheery baseline. "Or maybe I'm wondering why you aren't helping with the Unknowing! You could show a  _ little _ bit of team spirit, you know."

Martin frowned. "You know I have my own plans in the works. I don't have time for your little circus show."

Nikola laughed again, that horrible plastic sound.

"Oh yes," she said. "Because Skygarden was  _ such _ a success."

He bristled. "Skygarden would have worked perfectly if the Folly hadn't interfered," he spat. "All of that energy ready to be harvested—"

Nikola yawned theatrically. Theatrically was really the only way she did anything.

"Yes, yes, I know," she said impatiently. "But it  _ didn't _ work, did it? So it's my  _ little circus show _ or nothing. You know I won't be the only one affected if the Unknowing fails."

He did know, and he didn't like it. Another blow to the Stranger would weaken him considerably. He wasn't sure if that was better or worse than having to work with Nikola.

"Fine," he sighed. "I can help with the preparations. But I can't be there when it happens; I have too much to do."

She waved him off.

"As if I need you there," she scoffed. Martin glowered, and got an unnaturally wide grin in return. "But I'm glad you changed your mind. We're having  _ so _ much fun already."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm convinced that martin chorley is an avatar of the stranger in this universe, and equally convinced that he cannot STAND being around nikola.

**Author's Note:**

> i have some more stuff written, and some ideas, but please feel free to tell me if there are any particular characters you'd like to see interact, or any specific scenarios you're interested in! this is all just for fun and i'm more than happy to take suggestions and requests if you have them. thank you for reading!


End file.
